


cold, dead hands

by lolololabilly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolololabilly/pseuds/lolololabilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They sat the chest before her, silent as statues, and waited. And watched. But she would not give them the satisfaction of her grief…"</p>
            </blockquote>





	cold, dead hands

Winter had truly come when they delivered his bones to her.

They came to her at night, when the fires burned low, when many had retired to their tents and dreams of battle, and the sounds of life and men and war were hushed. Two Lannister men carried the chest between them – a small, plain thing adorned with no jewels or filigree, but hard, cracking leather and iron fastenings. When they had entered the tent, the chill of the night had swept in and embraced her. _Like the ghost of Ned returned to me_ , she thought.

They sat the chest before her, silent as statues, and waited. And watched. But she would not give them the satisfaction of her grief; her face was set as stone and her eyes gleamed like their armor in the torchlight. She had hardened herself to her sorrow, and these days the warmth of the sun could barely stir her. No, these men of Cersei’s would never see beneath her armor, nor whisper to their queen that Catelyn Stark had wept at the sight of a chest of bones.

They left without a word.

She knelt before it, wondering when Ned had become so small. The chest did not seem large enough to hold a grown man, but she closed her eyes and reminded herself that it held only bones and dust. _This is not the Ned I left all those years ago_ , she thought to herself. _These are the scraps that Cersei has left for me_.

Her hands did not tremble as she unlatched the fastenings, but they were hurried and impatient, like a child opening a present. The night air rushed in again, whispering encouragements in her ear, and she opened the lid.

And there he lay on a rough spun bolt of cloth, fragmented and filthy and dead, but it was Ned all the same. There were pieces of him missing, and small shards of bone littered the inside like the first snows of late autumn. Strands of hair clung to his skull with dirt and dried blood, and rust and old tar lined the rim of the hole where the spike had been thrust through.

 _Ned_ , she thought. _Oh Ned…_

Another gust of wind wrapped cold arms around her and sank into her skin.

Now her hands trembled as she traced patterns on the bones; lines of worry in his forehead, of sternness in the corners of his eyes, and laughter at the edges of his mouth. She gently touched his cheek, wiping away the dust as she had once wiped away tears. The bone beneath was smooth and white as frost, and strange to the touch where there once had been stubble to frame his face. She placed a gentle hand over where his heart had been, as she always had after lovemaking. This time his calloused fingers did not drag across her skin, and no arm curled around her waist and pulled her tight against him.

Catelyn stared at the bones and her hands gripped the edge of the chest tight. She felt her sorrow rise around her like the tide and she could not swim away from it. It crashed against her mercilessly – _dead, dead, Ned is dead_ – and she felt the heat of her tears sliding down her face. They splashed against the bones and stained them with her grief, and it was all she could do to keep from screaming.

Through her tears she saw her hands – white and hard and made of bone – and her sadness began to ebb away. She slowly reached into the chest and, with a lover’s tenderness, she slid her fingers in between the bones of Ned’s hand.

She sat there for some time, as the night began to fade into the greyness of morning. The wind rustled around her and caught in her hair, hair that Ned had loved.

She closed her eyes and pretended it was his hands that gently combed her.

 _Cold, dead hands_ , she thought, _but Ned’s hands_.


End file.
